


apartment 11

by fluffysfics



Series: the most infuriating seventy seven years of his life [3]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 1960s, F/M, Introspection, no racism this time!, the Master gets to be kinda happy, the Master’s time on Earth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 10:21:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29540901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fluffysfics/pseuds/fluffysfics
Summary: The Master’s enjoying his life in New York. And it’s all going well- until one day, he locks himself out of his apartment, and he has to call on his neighbours for help.
Relationships: Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Series: the most infuriating seventy seven years of his life [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2147559
Comments: 4
Kudos: 50





	apartment 11

New York suits the Master. It’s a city that’s always moving, always bustling- no one ever stops to bother him on the street, because they’re all far too busy getting on with their own little lives. The worst he has to deal with on a regular basis is the frequent bewilderment over the mismatch between his looks and his accent. And really, he’s had much worse in his twenty years on Earth. 

It’s been a good decade, as far as anything on this planet can be good. Not one single encounter with the Doctor, and _much_ nicer living arrangements- a nice little apartment in a building on the Upper West Side of Manhattan, which he’d _maybe_ used a little sneaky hypnotism to get his hands on. But never mind that; he’s _happy_. 

Happiness is a hard thing to get used to, the Master finds. And it doesn’t come all at once- instead, it’s more like a gradual lightening of the soul, a lifting of weight until one day, he can take a deep breath in and _smile_ , and it doesn’t feel completely fake. He fits in here, as much as a stranded Time Lord can fit in anywhere. 

It’s a warm spring day in 1964 when he manages to forget his apartment key for the first time ever. Two shopping bags digging into the fingers of one hand, he fumbles for the key in his pockets, checking them all- it’s definitely not there. The Master rattles the door handle, hoping that it has magically contrived to remain unlocked. No such luck. 

“Shit,” he mumbles under his breath. He thumps his forehead against the door, feeling that old anger starting to throb like a headache at the front of his skull. Stupid, _stupid_ \- no. No, come on. Deep breath. This could happen to anyone, he reminds himself sternly. Not stupid, just momentarily unlucky. 

This is a nice apartment building. Someone in here will have a phone that he can use to call his landlord, and get a spare key. There. Easy solution, no anger required. He’s getting so _good_ at this. 

The Master glances around. His direct neighbour is Apartment 12, but she has a very large dog, and dogs do _not_ like him. He’s pretty sure that they can smell the cheetah still in his genes. 

Hmm...Apartment 11, then. He doesn’t know who lives there- they’d only moved in a month or so ago, and he hadn’t heard much from them aside from the usual clatter of bags and boxes as they’d arrived. 

He makes his way down the hallway to their front door, knocking sharply four times in a row. There’s a brief, barely audible shuffle of movement inside, and then the door opens, and- and—

The Master finds himself standing face to face with Amy Pond. 

Numb with shock, it’s all he can do to stare for a moment, until the expression on her face shifts to gently amused confusion. “Can I help you...?” 

“I- do you have a telephone? I need to call the landlord, I’m locked out of my apartment. Number 13.” He forces a smile, hoping that his eyes don’t betray his bewilderment. What is _she_ doing _here_? And- older, too. Well into her middle age, grey streaking the vibrant red of her hair. She’s a friend of the Doctor’s that he’s never _officially_ met, aside from a brief glance when the Doctor had dropped into MI6 one time, but of course he’s read all of the files. Watched her and her husband wandering around modern-day London, too, on occasion.

And now she’s in 1960s New York. He’s obviously missed something here. 

“Sure! Come on in, we got the phone set up last week.” Amy steps aside, beckoning him in. “Didn’t know we lived so close to another Brit. A Northerner, too! That’s close enough to Scotland that you get some points. Good on you.” 

This is _indescribably_ strange. The Master half-wonders if he ate something dodgy last night, and this is some kind of bizarre fever dream. 

He smiles again, stepping into a front room furnished in a way that feels...achingly reminiscent of the early 21st century. It’s colourful, and warm-toned, without the awful plastic shininess and neon colours that have invaded most people’s fashion senses lately. 

There’s a rotary telephone set up on a table by the wall, and he steps over to it, quickly dialling his landlord’s number and explaining the situation. After a little grovelling, he gets a promise that he’ll receive his spare key in an hour. Which means he has an hour, and...nothing to do. 

The Master looks at Amy. This is just _too_ weird. “I can be out of your hair now,” he says quickly. “I don’t want to bother you for too much longer, I’ll just be on my...”

He trails off, because Amy is already waving a dismissive hand and striding off into the kitchen. “Absolutely not. Been waiting for someone who’ll _appreciate_ the fact that we have an electric kettle. How d’you take your tea?” She pops her head back out of the kitchen door just as he’s making an attempt to sneak out. He freezes. “Oh, and what’s your name? I’m Amelia. Amelia Williams. But call me Amy.” 

That’s one too many questions all at once for a mind already reeling from surprise, and the Master steps back, flopping down into a red leather armchair as Amy disappears back into the kitchen. He rubs a hand across his face, sighing. Okay. This is real, this is happening. He’s nearly desperate to find out _why_ , but that’s not going to be possible any time soon. 

“Black with two sugars. No- three.” It’s been a _strange_ day, at least for the last five minutes, and that’s quite enough strangeness to give him a headache. He needs the energy from some excessive sugar, particularly since it’s now taking him several seconds to remember the fake name he’s leasing this apartment under. “Oswald Magister.” A little tribute to his favourite of the Doctor’s friends, and a good old classic alias. Can’t go wrong with those. 

“Well, lovely to meet you, Oswald. Just a minute...” Amy trails off, and the Master uses the quiet as an excuse to sink further into the chair and rub at his temples. This...this clearly isn’t something set up by the Doctor. Amy’s not here on some kind of mission. And she’s genuinely aged; he knows what prosthetic makeup looks like, and that’s not it. Now that he thinks about it, he’s seen the name _Amelia Williams_ before- in bookshops, in bold letters on the cover of detective novels, or occasionally children’s stories. 

He’s managed to sit up properly by the time she comes through with two mugs of tea, handing one to him with a warm smile. There’s a twinkle in her eye that wasn’t quite there when he’d last seen her; she seems a little softer, a little kinder. He wonders idly if she’s got children hiding away somewhere, or maybe they’ve left home already- that warmth in her expression is very distinctively _parental_. 

“So,” Amy says, settling down in an armchair opposite him. She leans forward in a way that makes him feel slightly like he’s about to be interviewed. “What’s another Brit like you doing in a place like this? Always on the lookout for a good story, I am.” 

The Master lifts his tea to his lips, taking a long drink. It _is_ good, actually- strong and sweet, enough to bolster his nerves just a little. “I’m on the run from Scotland Yard after killing a man in cold blood,” he says with a wry smile, giving her his best ‘haunted private investigator’ voice. “No- I’m kidding. Of course. Just...needed a change of scenery. Fresh start. London really wasn’t working out for me.” 

“I used to live in London. Me and Rory- that’s my husband. He’s at work. He’s a doctor, so god knows what ridiculous hour he’ll come home.” Amy’s expression shifts slightly, a sort of far away look drifting over her face. “Unpredictability. Must be a Doctor thing...” 

The Master can hear the capital D in her voice there. He takes another gulp of tea, still too hot to drink in large quantities like that, and lets it scald the back of his throat. The slight pain at least gives him something to focus on that’s not thinking about how _right_ she is, how utterly unpredictable they always are. How much he loves them for it, when he’s not busy despising them. 

He _really_ needs to change the subject now. 

“So you know my story, but what’s yours? I thought Scottish people were supposed to stay loyal to their homeland forever or something.” He even manages a teasing smile to go along with that, which feels impressive to him at the moment. 

“Oi! I kept the accent,” Amy says, wagging a stern finger at him. “Let’s just say- we’re here because of circumstance. New York’s not exactly where I pictured myself living. But it’s a good time- good place. And I’ve got Rory, and really, he’s all I need.” 

They’re trapped here, the Master realises. New York is a funny place for time travellers in this century- full of holes and false starts and twists. Fly badly and you’d be liable to find yourself stuck in a bubble universe, or face to face with your own evil clone. Something happened, and now Amy and Rory are stuck here to live out the rest of their lives, Doctor-less. A strikingly similar predicament to his own, except that theirs will end sooner, he thinks, eyes drifting over the lines on Amy’s face. Humans are such _fragile_ creatures. 

“I’m glad you’re happy here,” he says quietly, and finds to his surprise that he means it. The humans that the Doctor sweeps up are innocents- they never have the slightest clue what they’re getting themselves into. More often than not, they seem to find themselves dead, or displaced, or with their lives forever wrecked and changed. 

Most of them don’t deserve that pain, the Master thinks to himself. He remembers the space station, the gunshot- numb panic, and a flood of guilt that he hadn’t dared show. Bill hadn’t deserved one little bit of what had happened to her, and he doesn’t even know what came of her in the end. It’s going to weigh on his soul forever, he thinks. 

“Me too,” Amy says, snapping him out of his thoughts. “You look like someone just walked over your grave. Cheer up- might never happen.” She lifts her mug of tea in what’s probably supposed to be an encouraging way. 

“Mm,” the Master hums, remembering his earlier good mood. It’s remarkable, how quickly any sign of the Doctor can send him spiralling right back into unpleasant thoughts. It’s like being in love with a hurricane. Disaster everywhere he looks, and even _he_ can’t stay in the calm eye of the storm sometimes. 

He really shouldn’t be thinking about this now. The Master takes a deep breath and another long drink of tea, firmly putting a lid on any thoughts about the Doctor. He may know who Amy is, but she’s just his neighbour now, and he should treat her like that. Bringing up the Doctor would hurt her as much as it would him, he can recognise that much, at least. 

He has to say, he’s genuinely impressed with himself for not feeling even a slight urge to fetch his TCE and blast her with it. It’s exactly the sort of petty thing that some of his selves would have done; murdered an old companion of the Doctor’s just for the vindictive pleasure of knowing that he could, that there was no way for him to be stopped. 

He knows now that Amy doesn’t deserve that. Empathy is an odd emotion, but it’s lodged itself deep in his hearts and it will not let go. 

He’s...still doing a terrible job of not thinking about the Doctor. He drains his mug of tea, shifting in his chair. “I really should be going now. Sure I’ve imposed for far too long.” 

Amy scoffs, glancing at a clock on the wall. “It’s been fifteen minutes, sit down. Hey- can I tell you about my latest story? I’m stuck on the climax and Rory’s sick to death of hearing about it, I could use a fresh pair of ears.” 

The Master is not and has never been a writer. An artist, occasionally, and certainly very good with words, but he’s not a _writer_. Still, maybe helping Amy Pond unpick a plot hole will keep him distracted. She’s...surprisingly good company, he thinks. 

“Go on, then. Start from the beginning, I’ll do my best. Promise I won’t leak the spoilers to the press.” 

The Master settles back in his chair as Amy beams at him, and he listens. Generally he prefers to be the one doing the talking, if anyone’s going to talk for this long, but it’s surprisingly nice to keep quiet and get invested in a story. 

By the time his landlord arrives forty-five minutes later with a key, the Master is feeling much better. Calmer, at least, and he’s half got it into his head to invite Amy and Rory over for dinner some time soon. That would be a new experience, cooking for other people. But a challenge that he’s certainly more than up to, he’s sure. 

He flops back onto the firm mattress of the bed back in his own apartment, rubbing his thumb up and down the smooth edge of his keys. Maybe he’s getting better. He doesn’t want to scream, cry, kill anyone, or punch anything, and he just spent a whole hour around someone Doctor-adjacent. Eleven years ago, back in London, encountering someone that the Doctor _barely_ knew had wrecked him. So this was good, this was a good start. 

He closes his eyes, and sees the face of _his_ Doctor; that shining hair, those gorgeous eyes- just like liquid gold, and twice as dangerous. He’s still so deeply, madly in love with her, and he’s never hated anyone more than he hates himself for it. But her face is in his mind, and he’s got control over his emotions. He’s doing _well_. 

“You don’t scare me,” he murmurs to that picture in his mind, and for a moment, he can almost make himself believe it. 

**Author's Note:**

> hope you enjoyed this one!! comments and kudos are super appreciated <3


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